


provocateur

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hate Sex, M/M, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snark, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: Tarn saw something he shouldn't have, and Deadlock wants to make sure he doesn't talk about it.





	provocateur

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I poked at while rereading comics for commission planning. The reason this exists is because Deadlock and Tarn were brought up in conjunction and I said "wow I bet they'd hate each other" and then in the next breath "oh no I want them to fuck"
> 
> And... here we are. 
> 
> I feel like I should say sorry but I'm rly not

Tarn was pissed.

 

Technically speaking it was  _ supposed _ to be hard to tell with Tarn. He kept his face covered, after all, and he generally kept himself “reigned in” to make his body language unreadable.

 

But he was pissed. Deadlock knew, but it wasn’t exactly a secret. Sure, a lot of his own survival not too long ago depended on being able to read the slightest cues towards anger or violence, but… no. Tarn had been recalled by Megatron from whatever assignment he’d been on; some sort of ongoing issue with his team. 

 

Of  _ course _ he was pissed. 

 

But that’s not what was really burning him up, and Deadlock smirked at the thought. Thinking of the insufferable mech all  _ frustrated _ was good fun, but still… Deadlock had to  _ do _ something.

 

Something like slipping out the door of Megatron’s private rooms when he  _ knew _ Tarn would be there to see. Tarn tried to hide the full pause in his step, but Deadlock noticed; it brought another smirk to his lips.

 

Tarn strode towards him with purpose.

 

Deadlock planted his hands on his hips. “If you’re looking for Megatron, he’s -- indisposed. Try back at normal business hours.” Deadlock couldn’t actually  _ see _ him scowl, but he would bet his last ten shanix that a scowl was what Tarn’s mask concealed. 

 

The truth was, Megatron wasn’t even in there. This gamble would either pay off or it wouldn’t, but he was wagering it would considering Tarn’s moody temperament since he’d arrived on base.

 

Quirking an optic ridge, Deadlock started to walk away. He knew he’d succeeded when Tarn followed him rather than attempting to get an answer from Megatron’s door. “Then what are  _ you _ doing here outside ‘business hours’?” he demanded. There was a definite sneer to his tone, which was otherwise impressively even.

 

Deadlock cast a  _ look _ over his shoulder -- one that said  _ you know very well what _ . But what he said was, “How’s that  _ your  _ business?”

 

Tarn’s engine whirred impatiently. “It’s my business if I need to see Megatron at this hour, as you apparently do.”

 

Deadlock snorted but didn’t reply. He was too satisfied that Tarn had taken the bait; if he really had urgent business to discuss with Megatron, he would have ignored Deadlock’s presence and beat upon Megatron’s door or tried to hail him on a communications frequency (although, amusingly, Deadlock had the impression that Megatron had muted all but emergency frequencies from Tarn). Which truly cast light on what business Tarn wanted to see to, didn’t it?

 

“Deadlock.”

 

“What.” He said it so flatly it wasn’t even a question, and he barely looked at Tarn as he spoke. If the deep rumble of his engine meant anything, it was surely that the larger mech was  _ more _ incensed. Scrap, for all the layers of culture and sophistication he was supposedly wrapped in, Tarn was surprisingly easy to get worked up. Sure, Deadlock had an advantage in that he hadn’t yet met a mech he couldn’t piss off,  _ and _ there was the whole matter of what Tarn saw, but damn. 

 

If he’d known it was this easy, he’d have pranked Tarn for the sheer joy of it long ago.

 

Ignoring him was proving too much. With another subtle growl of his engine, Tarn grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the nearest wall. Deadlock didn’t make any struggle or sound of protest -- he simply glared up at Tarn through narrowing red optics. “Can I help you?” he hissed.

 

“I already asked you a question. You ignored me.”

 

Deadlock arched that optic ridge again. “I didn’t. Just told you it was none of your business.”

 

Tarn leaned down a little. “ _ I _ will decide what is my business,” he murmured.

 

“Please, don’t try to intimidate me. It’s embarrassing.”

 

Tarn’s fingers flexed and dug into his shoulderguard some. “I’m ordering you.”

 

Here Deadlock laughed rudely. “ _ You _ aren’t my C.O., Tarn. Just ‘cause you lead a special team don’t mean you can boss me around.” The fact that Tarn may in fact have some sort of rank over him clearly held no meaning for Deadlock. 

 

“You're going to be _ this  _ difficult about telling me why Megatron won’t see me?”

 

Deadlock grinned. Unspoken was the fact that he lived to be difficult, full stop. “Mm, yes, when the reason is… personal.”

 

Tarn’s fingers flexed again, stressing his shoulder plating to the point of denting. “Personal,” he repeated. 

 

“Mmhm… c’mon Tarn, you aren't that stupid. This is what you're mad about in the first place, isn't it? Well, maybe mad isn't the right word…”

 

The red light of Tarn’s optics flickered as he narrowed them. “Then what  _ is _ ?” he demanded, his voice dangerously soft.

 

“Jealous.”

 

Tarn’s optics blazed again. “ _ Jealous, _ ” he spat back, sounding outright indignant. “And why should I be jealous of the likes of  _ you _ ?”

 

Deadlock practically giggled. “Because of what you saw earlier this week.”

 

Of all the things between him and Megatron that Tarn could have walked in on, it had been the quiet time. Deadlock still sought instruction here and there from Megatron, when their leader could provide it. Reading was still difficult for him; he’d been curled up in Megatron’s lap, following along with his work for practice and vocabulary. It had been the best way they'd found to make it work so no extra time was taken out of Megatron’s day. After all, they were no longer the mechs they'd been before the war, sneaking off to read poetry in secluded energon shops and the like.

 

...that sounded way more romantic in his head than it should have. Geez. But at least he wasn't  _ Tarn  _ levels of pathetic. He and Megatron  _ had  _ been friends. Tarn was just… 

 

Tarn had barged in, working off that inflated sense of importance he had. Deadlock had almost dropped into recharge at that point -- he usually did, after a long day helping to work former civilian classes into shape -- but he’d jolted awake and given Tarn an affronted look, much like an offended cybercat. 

 

Tarn’s business had died on his lips. Whatever he’d expected when he’d let himself in, it surely hadn’t been Megatron with a lapful of dozy Deadlock reading along with his daily reports.

 

And ever since, Tarn had been testy, moody… it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

 

And it was  _ funny _ \-- with all this in mind, Deadlock wished Tarn had walked in on him riding Megatron’s spike! The mech would probably have blown some vital circuits.

 

He actually looked close to that now, fury burning in his optics as he pushed Deadlock more forcefully against the wall, his shoulder plating now making groans of protest under Tarn’s grasp. “That was nothing,” he said tensely.

 

Deadlock laughed again, the sound only broken by the barest wince as Tarn slowly rotated his arm and twisted a panel of plating. “I know,” he said. “That’s why it’s so fraggin  _ funny _ you’re so -- burnt up about it.”

 

Growling -- clearly  _ not _ enjoying being called out on this -- Tarn hauled him up the wall with a truly horrendous  _ screech _ of his frame against the wall, nose to mask as he narrowed his optics to slits. “You’re wrong,” he said softly, his field hot with unmistakable anger. “Draped across his lap like some desperate vagrant? It’s pitiful… not enviable.”

 

Deadlock licked his lips, snorting. “S’not just that though, is it?” he asked. Again he felt a Tarn’s hands twitch, and this time pain shot down the arm of the shoulder he was currently crushing. “It’s the implication.”

 

“It implies  _ nothing _ !”

 

“No, but Megatron kicking you out does.” Tarn didn’t have anything to say to that and Deadlock snickered again. He was more than happy to continue. “So no, a little  _ snuggling  _ isn’t what you’re jealous of… it’s everything  _ else _ we get up to… and the fact that you aren’t given the same attention.”

 

Now Tarn was  _ really _ pissy. Nailed it, Deadlock thought, although this wasn’t a hard conclusion to come to -- Deadlock was just the one finally saying it. He was  _ not  _ the pitiable or desperate one here.

 

“Do you ever tire of speaking?”

 

Deadlock burst into laughter again. “ _ That’s _ rich, coming from you of the  _ special voice _ .”

 

Tarn finally moved his hand from Deadlock’s now half-ruined shoulder. He wasn’t bothering to suppress his growling now. “Don’t mock what you do not comprehend,” he warned.

 

A curious thing happened. Discomfort, not quite pain, prickled through his spark. His optics brightened, then he scoffed. How far was Tarn really going here?

 

His mobile hand settled on Deadlock’s chestplate, as though a reminder.

 

What a fragging idiot.

 

Deadlock tilted his helm back, chin jutting out. “What’s your plan here, Tarn?”

 

“What?”

 

Quirk of the optic ridge. “I mean, if you’re just so  _ frustrated _ you want to tear something to shreds, there’s plenty of sparring droids laying around.”

 

Tarn made his own scoffing sound deep in his throat, clenching his hand into a fist and scratching ugly marks into Deadlock’s chassis. “Wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying,” he rumbled.

 

Deadlock hummed. “And yet considering your  _ job _ … this is tame.” And despite the now-dull pain in his shoulder, it was true. Tarn was quite specialized in tearing mechs apart… but he did play by his own rules, it seemed. Deadlock was no traitor, and considering now how much Megatron  _ valued _ his company… Well, Tarn didn’t want any more of Megatron’s ire just as much as he wanted more  _ positive _ attention. 

 

God, it was too funny. 

 

“So,” Deadlock continued, “I’m wondering what we’re still doing here.” Certainly Deadlock had just wanted to provide enough of a diversion around walking in on that  _ snuggle scene _ that he didn’t go talking about it anywhere. Getting Tarn ruffled about it seemed to be the best course, since he was  _ so _ very controlled and refined. “Surely you aren’t waiting around for me to tell you in  _ wondrous _ detail how it feels when he fr--”

 

He was cut off by Tarn’s other hand abruptly covering half his face and slamming his helm into the wall. Deadlock blinked for a minute, stunned, before snickering again. Not only for the  _ reaction _ , but the fact that in shifting his hands around, they’d ended up panel-to-panel, and Tarn had done nothing but  _ lean into _ that.

 

Well, Deadlock hadn’t set out to frag Tarn today, but  _ that  _ was sure something to have him keep his mouth shut, too.

 

Deadlock arched his frame a little, still peering at Tarn from between his fingers. “You satisfied with an indirect?” he asked, laughing breathlessly as Tarn squeezed his helm and pinned him tighter to the wall.

 

“I would be satisfied with you  _ shutting up _ ,” Tarn snarled.

 

“Well, as you’re acutely aware, you can’t always get what you want.”

 

And that was it, it seemed. With another growl of a sound, Tarn moved the hand from Deadlock’s helm back to his frame, spreading his legs open and shoving their pelvic plating together in a screeching grind of metal.

  
From the way charge jumped off the large frame, it seemed like Deadlock had been on the mark about how  _ frustrated _ Tarn was, too.

 

“C’mon then,” Deadlock grunted. “Don’t tease… unless you can’t get it up without a certain mech around?”

 

At this point it was clear that whatever Deadlock said, it was just going to piss Tarn off more; stupid little barbs he might not have cared about normally now stuck and rasped under his plating. 

 

Good to know he could get even Tarn to that point of saturation. But it had resulted in one of Tarn’s hands groping between Deadlock’s legs, pawing at his panels as though trying to peel them back himself. 

 

Well, that wouldn’t do. Deadlock released them quickly, hissing in a soft intake as Tarn immediately probed his valve with his fingertips. He wasn't forceful, but he wasn't exactly gentle, either. It was exploratory in its own way, as though Tarn were trying to figure out through his fingers just  _ why  _ Megatron favored him so.

 

“Thought I said not to tease,” Deadlock murmured, unable to resist.

 

Tarn’s engine growled again as he pressed overwhelmingly close to Deadlock now, thrusting those two fingers deep into him and drawing a soft hum from Deadlock’s throat. “If you’re  _ this _ hard to satisfy,” he hissed, pumping his fingers into Deadlock’s slick valve, “then I do not see the appeal.”

 

Deadlock practically giggled. “Oh,  _ Megatron _ has no issues satisfying me,” he cooed. Even Tarn would have to admit he walked right into that one.

 

Obviously, Tarn was as pleased about it as anything else. But he was clearly very too fargone. It hadn’t escaped Deadlock that they were still in a hallway just off a main corridor, but hey, if Tarn didn’t care, neither did he.

 

Deadlock let his helm loll back against the wall, lips parted as he panted, enjoying the large fingers sliding over the primed nodes of his valve, nearly as much as he was enjoying Tarn’s frustration.

 

Tarn hated this just as much as he craved it; Deadlock knew from experience -- his mind darting, just briefly, to Starscream -- that it was worth the frag.

 

When Tarn pulled his hand away, Deadlock started to peer down -- but his vision flashed white in pain as the mech viciously pinned him tight to the wall using his injured shoulder. The smaller mech cursed heartily, blinking as though it would help his vision to clear.

 

Tarn smirked. Not that Deadlock could  _ see _ , but he  _ knew _ .

 

“I can't wait,” Tarn murmured, leaning close so that his mask brushed along Deadlock’s cheekguard, “until you misstep. You're so  _ comfortable  _ where you are.” He punctuated this with another twist into his damaged shoulder. Deadlock hissed, clenching his jaw and showing off his fangs, never wavering his glare locked into Tarn’s. “You're cocky and insubordinate. You won't hold this little position of  _ favor _ forever and believe me… I'll be there.”

 

Deadlock growled. “Keep dreaming,” he murmured. He shifted, feeling Tarn shift him again to line their equipment up. “You’re wrong about what kinda attention you  _ deserve _ from Megatron, and you’re wrong about me.”

 

Tarn neglected to reply, but the rumble of his engine reverberated through Deadlock’s frame as he finally pushed in. Deadlock grunted, biting his lower lip hard as the mech seated himself deep in one relentless thrust. 

 

“For things that matter,” Tarn murmured, the thrum of an engine making it sound like a purr, “I am patient.” He slipped his hand away from Deadlock’s ruined shoulder to his waist, though he dragged away a twisted scrap of plating and let it fall to the floor with a dull thud. A negligent sound, in the wake of Tarn spreading him wide and slamming their hips together.

 

The hand on his waist clenched, claws digging into seams like it was a natural impulse to be destructive. 

 

Deadlock arched as he was able, mostly trapped between the wall and Tarn’s powerful thrusts. He snarled and groaned, enveloped by the heat of their frames and fields, overpowered by the pleasure of their coupling and the painful bite of Tarn’s hands. 

 

Frag, if it wasn’t such work and such a fine and dangerous line to walk, Deadlock might have considered attempting this more often. It was nothing if not exhilarating.

 

Hearing Tarn panting next to his audio, completely absorbed in the act… well, it amused Deadlock more than it probably should. But then neither of them were immune, their verbal war forgotten, although Tarn’s digging into his seams was not. They both chased their overloads just the same.

 

Tarn’s fingers curled tighter inside his side-seam, making Deadlock snarl as charge popped off their plating and flared through their fields. Deadlock curled forward, sinking his fangs into Tarn’s shoulder.

 

Growling, Tarn tried to literally shrug him off. When that didn’t work, he finally wrenched his hand from the mech’s side to grab Deadlock’s helm and drag him away.

 

It wasn’t easy, though. Deadlock had gotten his own piece of Tarn. He spat out a scrap of armor, snorting in laughter even as Tarn’s engine grumbled -- a sour note otherwise hidden amongst their frames humming and shivering in post-overload pleasure.

 

Tarn sighed, sounding impressively put upon. “Whatever delusions you have about yourself,” he murmured, slipping his spike out of Deadlock, though he kept him suspended against the wall, “keep them far away from me.”

 

Deadlock grunted, a piercing red optic still gazing at Tarn. “I’m not the deluded one,” he retorted.

 

Tarn snorted and stepped back, watching with some satisfaction as Deadlock wasn’t quite able to keep himself upright. “Like I said.”

 

Deadlock just shrugged, watching Tarn walk away as though he’d won something. Talk about delusions. 

 

The mech stretched and let out a damn near content sigh. Right now his only decision was if he felt shameless enough to go straight to the medic as he was, without stopping to clean himself up a bit in the public washracks.

 

Either way, it wouldn’t do for him to be half in pieces when he  _ really _ went to rendezvous with Megatron.


End file.
